The Understatement of the Year

by Sarina Bowen

  “Do you really? Then tell me the truth about you. I’m really fucking patient about the way you hide from the people who don’t matter so much. But at least you could be honest with the guy in your bed.”

  “I’m gay,” I whispered.

  Rikker grinned. “Fuck. Finally.”

  “I don’t know why that makes you so happy.”

  He tightened his arms around me. “Because someday, when you find that easier to say, it will make you happy, too. And I want that for you, G. I want you to be happy.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if you were happy, too.”

  “Big of you.”

  I snuggled into his body. We’d had a little bit of a fight there, and it had left me feeling clingy. “You’ll really let me fuck you some time? I didn’t know you liked that.”

  “Well…” he hesitated, studying my ceiling. “I’m not opposed to it as a concept. It’s just that I never enjoyed it as much as you seem to.”

  I picked my head up to look at him. “What — you can’t come like that?”

  “Not even close. But I’ll still do that for you. Fair’s fair.”

  Wow. My heart was full. Even so, I had a question. “Who’ve you done that with?” We hadn’t really had this conversation before, and I was desperately curious.

  “Only Skippy. He said I couldn’t call myself queer if I didn’t give bottoming a try. We never got the hang of it, though. So we went back to what worked best.”

  “I like a challenge.”

  He smiled at me. “Just don’t be mad if I don’t see fireworks, or whatever.”

  “Okay,” I laughed. “But I hope you do. Because… damn. Seriously. If you haven’t had your prostate pounded, you haven’t lived.”

  “Now there’s a slogan.”

  “I’m going to make bumper stickers.” I made myself comfortable again. Or, I tried to. My head was still spinning with needy thoughts. “Rikker?” I whispered, in case he was sleeping.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you still in love with Skippy?” After I asked the question, I regretted it. Did I really want to know?

  “No,” he said slowly. “We had our thing, and that’s over now. But I’ll always love him. He was really important to me.”

  “I understand,” I said quickly.

  Rikker put his hand on my hip, his fingers stroking my skin absently. “See, Skippy had a vision for life as a gay man even when he was only seventeen. He was like… ‘Look at all the fun we’re going to have! We have to go snowboarding. We have to go dancing. We’re going to Montreal this weekend, even though we don’t speak the language.’” Rikker laughed to himself.

  “Sounds pretty good,” I said, hoping it didn’t sound too bitter.

  “It was just what I needed at the time,” he said. “But you know what? Skippy is awfully controlling. He means well, but he likes to get his own way. I’m pretty easy-going, so for a long time I was fine with it. Then, at some point, I wasn’t. But our roles were set, and I could never seem to renegotiate the balance of power in our relationship.”

  “Interesting,” I said. Because it really was.

  “Yeah. Sterotypes don’t always hold up, G. He was the bottom in bed. But he wanted to be in charge every other damn minute. He picked the restaurants, he made the plans. When I had an idea, there was always a reason why his was better.”

  “That would get old.”

  “It did, and that’s why I thought I should move on. Then when he dumped me, I was so pissed.” He chuckled again, and I felt his breath tickle my neck.

  “You’ll tell me if I’m a pain, right?” I was twenty-one years old, and I’d never been in a relationship before. I didn’t know what I was doing. But tonight we’d had some tricky conversations, and I felt better for it. Not worse. Who knew?

  He kissed me between the shoulder blades. “Getting along together was never the problem with you and me,” he said. “We’re both easy. It’s just the rest of the world that’s hard.”

  Aint that the truth. I tugged his arm closer to my body, stretching his hand up to my mouth, where I kissed his palm.

  He gave a happy sigh. “I used to dream about sleeping with you. In Michigan, I mean. Just like this.”

  My throat got tight. “Me too.”

  “Yeah? I don’t mean sex. Well, I dreamed about that, too. Plenty. But when I got in bed every night, I wished you were there. You know I love you, right?”

  “Yeah,” I choked out. I was happy that the lights were out, so that he couldn’t see my eyes shining again.

  “Goodnight, G.”

  “Goodnight, Rik.”

  — Rikker

  After all that heavy conversation, I forgot to set the alarm on my phone.

  So I woke up the next morning in Graham’s bed. The sunlight streaming in through the windows was a bit of a surprise, as was the sight of Graham’s broad shoulders.

  Also, someone was knocking on the door to Graham’s room.

  “Sweetie, are you up?”

  Shit! His mom was out there. I lifted my head to look down at Graham. He swallowed and stretched a little. Sleepily, Graham lifted his head off the pillow. “Need a few minutes,” he said. The fact that he wasn’t freaking out yet made me want to check his pulse.

  There was a pause, and then his mother said, “I think I’ll pick up coffee and muffins.”

  Graham sat up and looked at me, and I waited for the inevitable look of panic to cross his face. But it didn’t. Instead, there was just a rumpled, sweet expression that made me want to reach for his naked body. “Hey, Mom?” he called, his voice still thick from sleep. “Can you grab a cup for Rikker too?”

  My heart stuttered in my chest.

  “Sure. Fifteen minutes,” she said. “Twenty if the line is long.”

  I said nothing, keeping still until she’d moved away from the door.

  But Graham threw back the covers and got out of bed as if nothing had shifted. As if it was no big thing to basically admit that she’d caught him in bed with his boyfriend. I watched him walk, bare-assed, across the room to his towel. He tied it around his waist, unlocked the door and left the room.

  It was tempting to let myself drowse, but I wouldn’t do that to Mrs. G. So I began looking around for my underwear.

  A second later the door opened again. “There’s nobody in the bathroom,” Graham said. “If you want a shower…”

  Holy crap. Maybe his head injury was more serious than I thought. “Um, okay?”

  “You go first.” Graham undid the towel from his own waist and threw it to me.

  Fifteen minutes later I was straightening up the bed when he came back into the room after his own shower. “Nice shirt,” he smirked.

  I’d stolen a plain gray tee out of his drawer. “I like it,” I said, patting the shirt. “It smells like you.”

  His expression softened for a whole two seconds, maybe three. It wasn’t often that I disarmed Graham, getting a peek at the tender soul hiding under that toughened shell. He made me work for it. But last night and this morning I’d been reaping the rewards.

  I was tying my shoes when Graham’s mom knocked again.

  “It’s open,” Graham said.

  “That’s nice,” Mrs. G’s voice came through the door. “But my hands are full.”

  “Sorry,” he laughed, going for the door.

  “Always be polite to the bearer of coffee,” she said, stepping over the threshold. “Hi John,” she said to me. “I made yours with a splash of milk. I hope that’s okay.”

  “That is awesome,” I said, trying not to feel awkward. I took the cup she offered me from the molded paper tray. “Thank you.”

  “Any time.”

  I took an appreciative gulp, and enjoyed the way the hot liquid felt going down. Like life itself pouring into me.

  “When is practice today?” Graham asked.

  “Not sure,” I said. “I’m afraid to look at my phone. Coach started getting a little nutty about the next game before we were even off
the bus yesterday.”

  “You’re up against Union,” Mrs. Graham said, shaking her head.

  “Yeah. Could be the last road trip of the year.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Graham said with a smirk.

  “Hey, it’s early. I haven’t had enough coffee.” I set the cup down so I could scoop my Spanish book into my backpack. “Have a good one, G. And Mrs. G. Feel free to read the next chapter of Roman history without me.”

  “Bye, John,” Graham’s mom said.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” I said again. Then I slipped out the door, saving us all any additional awkwardness.

  When it shut behind me, I heard her voice. “I just love that boy.”

  “He’s taken,” Graham replied.

  — April —

  Coast to Coast: Carrying the puck from deep in your own defensive zone all the way to the opposing team’s goal.

  — Graham

  My mother spent almost a month at Harkness helping me stay current on my schoolwork. I ended up dropping my computer programming class, but everything else got done.

  Eventually, as my stamina increased, there was less for her to do. So, in mid-April, the morning after taking Rikker and I out for a nice steak dinner, she flew home to Michigan.

  For the first time in fifty-three years, the Harkness hockey team had made it all the way to the Frozen Four. This time, I rode the bus to Boston with the team. And I watched from VIP seats as my teammates eked out a win over North Dakota. And then promptly got their asses handed to them by the Minnesota Gophers.

  Watching the loss of the national championship game was heartbreaking. On the other hand, it was our most winning season ever. And apparently, the hockey alumni gave more money to the school’s endowment than any other year in history.

  So at least somebody at Harkness won.

  Now the world’s longest hockey season was finally over. All that was left was the end-of-the-season surf ‘n turf party that Coach always threw. On a sunny Sunday around noon, I walked out of the Beaumont Gates with Bella and Hartley. We were supposed to clear the last few items out of our lockers, and then head over to Coach’s house together.

  I didn’t have any stuff in my locker, obviously. It had all been cleared out for Bridger. But I tagged along anyway, following my friends to the rink.

  The first thing I saw when I walked back into the locker room was Rikker.

  Eight months ago, I’d been sent into a tailspin by the sight of him. This time, he was a sight for sore eyes. Rikker sat on the bench in front of his locker, pulling his phone out of his pocket. But instead of looking up at me, he frowned.

  Rikker put the phone up to his ear. “Hey,” he said. “I saw that you called, but I’m kind of…”

  Whomever was on the other end of the call must have interrupted him. Because Rikker’s mouth closed into a grim line. And then I watched the color drain from his face. The phone slid out of his hand, clattering onto the bench beside him. Then Rikker hunched forward, his free hand covering his eyes.

  One second later I was across that room, grabbing the forgotten phone. The display said SKIPPY on it. And the thin sound of a voice was coming from the speaker. “Rik? Rikky, are you there?”

  “Hey,” I said into the phone. “Skippy?” I sat down beside Rikker. “What the hell happened?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Mike Graham,” I said.

  There was a beat of silence. “I had some bad news for Rikker. Can you get him to talk to me?”

  I took another look at my boyfriend. He was staring at the floor with unseeing eyes. If I had to describe him in one word, I would have chosen “catatonic.”

  My chest got tight. “Skippy,” I prompted. “Just tell me what’s the matter.”

  He sighed into the phone. “Rikker’s Gran collapsed after church this morning. They took her away in an ambulance.”

  “No!”

  “Yeah.”

  In my head, I was chanting it again. No. No. No. She had to be okay. She just had to. “Where is she now?”

  “Fletcher Allen, I’m pretty sure. It’s the big hospital up here.”

  “Uh, okay.” Fletcher Allen. I didn’t even have a pen. I looked around, and Hartley was standing beside me. “Can you… I need something to write on.” He turned on a heel and walked off. “Okay, Skippy. Does Rikker know how to get there?”

  “Yeah, he’ll know where it is. And I’m going over there now to see what I can learn.”

  “How did you hear about this, anyway?” I had a wild hope that maybe Skippy was just wrong. Rikker’s Gran was just about the heartiest old lady I’d ever met.

  “My mom was there at church. She called the ambulance. This only happened like a half hour ago. Mom sounded pretty shaken up.”

  Damn. “All right,” I swallowed. “I’m going to find a car. And it will take us about… three-and-a-half hours of driving time. Maybe four.” In my panic, I couldn’t remember how long it had taken us to drive it at New Year’s.

  “I’ll call you when I hear something.”

  “Thanks,” I said, uselessly. I ended the call, thinking only about the fact that I needed to borrow some wheels. Who had a car?

  I looked up then. And every guy in the locker room was staring at me. At us, actually. Because Rikker was still curled into himself. And my free arm was on his back, my palm on his neck, my fingers in his too-long hair. It wasn’t sexual. But it wasn’t how you touch a teammate. It was the touch you gave your boyfriend when his world was splitting in half, and there wasn’t anything you could do to stop it.

  For a long second, I just went still. It occurred to me that I could jerk my hand off of Rikker. Any other day, I would have done just that. But for once in my sorry life, there were more important things to worry about. So I took a long breath in through my nose, and left my hand right where it was. “We need to borrow a car,” I said. “We have to get to Vermont. Like, yesterday.”

  The deep silence lasted a little longer, until Bridger McCaulley broke it. “My girlfriend has a car. But I’ll have to find her and get the keys.”

  I stood then, ready to take him up on it. And I moved my hand to the top of Rikker’s head, my fingers in his soft hair. Until now, I’d failed Rikker at every opportunity. But not today. His grandmother had said that her years with him were a joy. She was practically bursting with pride for him. I could do that, too. I could stand here, claiming him as someone who mattered to me. It was really the least I could do.

  “You can take mine,” someone said. I turned to see Trevi fishing a set of keys out of his pocket. “And I’m parked right behind the rink.”

  “Thanks, man.” I let go of Rikker only so I could catch the keys as he tossed them.

  “I’ll walk you out there,” Trevi said, heading for the door.

  I bent over Rikker, still feeling eyes on my back. “Come on, Rik. Let’s go see her.” I squeezed his shoulder.

  Numbly, Rikker stood up and walked out after Trevi. He’d left his duffel bag on the floor.

  At some point Hartley had come back with a pad and a pen, which I no longer wanted. “What’s the problem?” he asked as I hoisted Rikker’s bag onto my shoulder.

  The locker room was still listening to every word I said. “Rikker’s grandmother in Vermont — that’s where he lived after his parents kicked him out. She collapsed today. We don’t know why.”

  “His parents kicked him out?” Hartley sputtered. “Like, permanently?”

  “Pretty much. Gotta run.” I left the locker room without so much as a glance back over my shoulder.

  Trevi drove a Volkswagen Jetta in cherry red. “Thanks, really,” I said when he showed us his car. “I’ll take good care of her.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Minutes later, Rikker and I were speeding up the interstate. For a hundred miles, he said almost nothing. He sat in the passenger seat beside me, his eyes on the road. During the long stretch on highway 91, I reached over to palm his thigh. And he took
my hand absently, holding on to me with dry fingers. I didn’t know what was going through his head. I only knew that it wasn’t good.

  “Where does your uncle Alan live?” I asked at one point. Because we really needed to call him. “Somewhere near Atlanta, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  As we drove through Central Massachusetts, I felt Rikker’s phone vibrate in my back pocket. Since I was driving, I ignored it. If the news was really dire, they’d call back. And there was no way to get him there any faster, anyway. But as we crossed into Southern Vermont, the phone began to vibrate again. So I pulled off the highway in Brattleboro, stopping at a gas station. I set the gas nozzle to fill Trevi’s tank, and then I took a look at Rikker’s phone.

  There were two text messages from Skippy. The first one had read: I’m @ the Fletcher Allen ER waiting room. No news yet. The recent message said: She’s alive but unconscious. Being treated for stroke.

  I replied: Thx. Just hit VT border. -MG

  Ducking back into the car, I took a look at Rikker. His head was tipped back on the headrest, staring at the windshield.

  “Rik?” He turned to look at me, but his eyes were blank. As if I could see right through him. “Skippy texted that she’s alive, but unconscious.”

  My boyfriend swallowed roughly. “Okay. We’re not too late.”

  I’d never heard Rikker sound so vulnerable. And if his Gran died, I was going to be really hacked off at the universe. I crawled forward a few inches and captured the side of his face in my hand. “We’re not going to be too late. Come on, now.”

  He sighed. “She’s only seventy-six. I’m not ready.”

  There was a lump in my throat now about a mile wide. And I couldn’t even blame my concussion. “This could turn out fine.”

  He knocked his head back against the headrest. “If she goes, I have nobody left. That’s it.”

  Something shifted in my gut, and not in a good way. I leaned all the way over to him now, catching the back of his neck in my hand. “That is just not true. I know she’s special, and I hope she lives to be a hundred. But you are not alone. You hear me?”